It's a Thin Line Between Love and Hate
by imaniiebee
Summary: song-fic. one-shot. Voldemort reflects on his relationship with Harry Potter. Warning: contains rape and abuse, mentions of slash, language and graphic torture. Reworked and reposted.


**Disclaimer: Hmm... I could have sworn I left my change of ownership papers right over there on the counter... OH that's right! They don't exist. J.K Rowling still owns Harry Potter and all related characters and references. Damn.**

A/N: This is a song fic to the song Thin Line Between Love and Hate by The Persuaders. I've changed the words the slightest slightest bit to fit my needs. It's a great song, if you haven't heard it, go ahead and take a listen. Anyways, this is my first song fic, so don't hate me if it sucks. Yes, the characters a touch OOC, and Harry is a touch insane and dark. Who cares? Enjoy, I hope.

Warnings: Contains slash, adult language, abuse and rape, torture, and character death. If one or more of these bother you, now's the time to back out.

* * *

><p><em>It's 5 o'clock in the morning<br>And I'm just getting in,  
>I knock on the door<br>A voice sweet and low says, who is it?  
>He opens up the door and lets me in<br>Never do he once say, sir, where have you been?  
>No, he says, are you hungry? Did you eat yet?<br>Let me hang up your coat, your coat, your coat  
>And the man tells me, pass me your hat too<br>All the time he smiles, never once raises his voice  
>It's 5 o'clock in the morning<em>

It had been five years since Harry had come to him. He hadn't in the least bit expected it; no, on the contrary, he had been immersed in plans to kill the boy.

But, like always, Harry had managed once again to surprise him.

Harry had shown up, barefoot, in the dead of night, in the middle of January, wearing a threadbare t-shirt and jeans ripped so badly they hardly served a purpose. He had bruises littering his once golden, but now sickly and pale skin, and blood dripping slowly, mockingly out of his numerous cuts. He leaned heavily on his left side, clutching his chest, and Voldemort just knew that his right leg and a few, if not more, of his ribs were shattered. His trademark glasses were gone, but Voldemort could _just_ see a few tiny shards of glass residing in the sensitive skin under the boy's left eye.

The worst that he had seen, though, was the growing patch of blood on the back of his pants and the acrid smell of semen and piss emanating from the boy.

Voldemort had been shocked to the point of silence.

The boy had mustered up a wry smile from somewhere inside of him and said tiredly, "Let me in Tom. I'm joining your fucking side."

That, really, had sealed the deal for the once overly paranoid and distrusting Voldemort. He had, almost effortlessly, picked up the young wizard and carried him bridal style not only through the threshold, but all the way to his personal chambers. He was careful along the way to do as much as he could to avoid jostling the now unconscious boy in his arms. Every once in a while, he absently casted a few wandless cushioning charms, so as to protect from the many sharps corners and narrow hallways of his mansion.

Once in his chambers, he took no time to cross the chambers and lay the boy gently on his silken sheets, all the while calling various potions and salves to his person.

He worked tirelessly well into the morning healing Harry's multitudinous wounds, cursing under his breath when he got to the particularly nasty ones.

It never crossed his mind to wonder why he was healing his worst enemy, or why each disappearing cut or bruise made his insides start to tingle. He only thought of the task ahead of him.

oOoOoOo

When Harry awoke, he didn't give in to the curiosity that was nagging at the back of his mind and ask Harry how he had gotten into his current situation. No, he figured if Harry had been serious the night before, then he would explain in his own time, and if he hadn't... well, he could always brutally and ruthlessly Legillimize him before killing him at their next meeting.

Somehow, Voldemort really hoped it was the first.

Yes, instead of invading the boy's privacy, he merely inquired as to if the boy would be staying for breakfast, to which the boy rolled his eyes and replied, "Of course Tom. I meant what I said. I always mean what I say."

Somehow, at the utterance of the words, Voldemort knew he was lost.

oOoOoOo

Soon enough, Voldemort knew what had driven Harry to him.

He had been sent home for the summer, as always, but on this particular summer, he was sent along with a note to his "family", from Dumbledore himself.

It had been a hard year for Harry. He had lost his godfather, admittedly Voldemort's fault, and his "friends" had slowly been drawing away from him. So, when Dumbledore had denied, once again, his request to stay somewhere, anywhere, else than the Dursley's humble abode, he had quietly resigned himself to his fate and gone.

Harry had delivered the unopened, unread note, and run quickly up to his room, therefore missing the malicious, depraved glint that caught in his uncle's eye as he scanned the letter.

Mr. Dursley took his time, though, revealing his instructions. He bid it carefully, no one noticing the slightly crazed way he looked at Harry when the boy came downstairs, barely covered in his rags.

He had been nicer to Harry, giving him hugs and the occasional pat. Soft, light touches, that turned slowly enough to less innocent grazes. He had eased up on the boy's chores, ignoring Petunia's incessant questioning on why he was spoiling the boy. He knew. He knew the prize he would receive for his hard work and patience.

Then, Harry's sixteenth birthday finally came.

Right at the stroke of midnight, Vernon Dursley had let himself into the boy's room. The boy was sleeping peacefully on his cot, looking for all the world like an innocent child. Vernon found himself glad they had starved the child so thoroughly. Even after spending the majority of the last five years being fully nourished at that freak school of his, the boy was still slight, small. He had developed muscle tone, but not enough to fight off anyone too much bigger than him, Vernon observed gleefully. He liked them small.

He crept closer to the boy's bed, leaning over him until his breath fluttered the boy's eyelashes. He raised his hand to gently stroke over the boy's thigh, up and around his backside, lingering for a moment until he rested at his neck. After a moment's hesitation, he clenched his fingers forcefully, watching elatedly as the boy' eyes and mouth flew open simultaneously.

He dragged Harry from his cot on the the ground. The boy had yet to fully awaken, and was searching his surroundings groggily, an adorably confused look gracing his delicate features.

Unfortunately for him, Vernon was not charmed. He took the opportunity to slam the heel of his foot down on the boys face, reveling in the satisfying crunch of his nose and the delicate tinkle of glass hitting the floor. He followed with a quick succession of kicks to the boy's back, ribs, thighs, anywhere he could reach. He felt himself tiring out, and dropped to his knees beside the now trembling boy. Tears had yet to fall from his eyes, though, and that served as a second wind to Vernon.

How dare the boy insult him that way?

He stood then, and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a gleaming silver blade. He smiled as he dropped back down, and slowly cut away the boys rags.

"Boy, how dare you ruin your clothes like that? Petunia will be so angry. See if you receive anymore!" Vernon sneered, all the while lightly grazing the boy's skin with his blade. He could see a trail of goosebumps forming from where his knife had just left and chuckled.

He was slightly disappointed by the lack of response coming from the boy. Then, his memory flashed back to the missive from that freak headmaster of the freak school, informing him that the boy would be conveniently incapacitated on the day of his birthday, should Vernon feel like teaching the boy a lesson, or carrying out any punishments he may have deserved.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Vernon turned back to the task at hand. Dragging the blade over to the boys left arm he plunged it in deeply, delighting in the boy's scream of pain. He was glad he had sent Petunia and Dudley away for the week, he was having far too much fun to be interrupted, like last time.

He let the knife rest for a moment, before slowly dragging it out and trailing the knife a little harder back to the boy's abdomen, just cutting the skin as he did. He paused, wondering just what to do next as a burst of inspiration hit him.

He repositioned the knife, and started in on meticulously carving the first letter into the boy's flesh. He paused every now and then when too much blood welled over and made his canvas slippery and wiped the boy down, taking great care to press with extra force over the fresh wounds. Each whimper and scream from the boy served to embolden him and he resumed his task more zealously than before.

After a good hour or so, Vernon sat back to admire his greatest work yet. The boy had the word 'Freak' running diagonally down his torso, from the bottom of his right nipple to his left hipbone. He had decorated his art with a chain intertwining the letters, just for flair. The boy had long since gone unconscious from the pain, which was just unacceptable. He started carving random swirls into the boy's legs until a jerk informed him of the boy's return to consciousness.

He dropped his blade on the floor next to Harry then, and let his eyes sweep over the boy. Bruises had begun to bloom all over him, and mixed with the blood in various states of freshness, the boy looked like a morbid rainbow. Vernon couldn't get enough. He let his eyes wander down lower, to the boy's manhood, limp but large, and couldn't help but feel enraged that it was longer, but slimmer than his own. He stripped of his clothes in a rage, all the more ready to claim his final prize. He grabbed the boy's cock, giving it a few rough tugs until he felt a stir of desire and a twitch of interest.

"I always knew you were a cock slut, you dirty whore. Never thought you were one of those pain types though. No worries boy. There's more where that came from. You're precious headmaster wanted me to make sure of that."

It was as if his words brought the boy to life. His eyes shot even larger, and he started to flail, screaming incoherent sounds of desperation, of betrayal. Vernon let it go on for a while, until he saw the boy reach his hand out for the knife. His foot quickly shoot out and caught the boy in the face, before landing on the wandering hand and grinding until he heard that gratifying succession of cracks and crunches.

"No you don't boy. Looks like I'm going have to speed up our final entertainment, aren't I? You're getting a little fight in you, that's good, I like em feisty!"

Vernon lowered himself over the boys face, his quickly hardening manhood dangling just above his mouth.

"Now I'm going to give you a little treat, not that you deserve it. Bite me and I'll cut off your fingers whore."

And with that he thrust himself all the way into the boys mouth, groaning as he heard him gag on it, little rivulets of spit running out the corners of his mouth. He thrust in and out harshly, grunting and groaning.

"That's it slut, lube it up, that's all you're gonna get you useless piece of shit. You know what's next don't you, you fucking whore. I bet your precious godfather used you just like this, and all those friends. I bet they're just lining up waiting for a turn in the sweet little arse. But it's my turn isn't it, slut. Ya, fuck just like that slut… unh."

He lifted himself off the boy, watching disinterestedly as the chain of spit between the boy and his cock broke and landed on the boy's face. He flipped the boy over, onto his stomach, knowing the carpet would aggravate his wounds better than he could. He positioned himself over the boy, and grabbed his knife.

Without further ado, he sank himself into the boy's arse, simultaneously driving the blade into the boy's shoulder. Their respective screams of agony and moans of ecstasy chorused, creating an interesting sound that reverberated around the room, soon accompanied by Vernon's grunts as he pummeled the body beneath him and Harry's tortured whimpers of pain.

He drove into him mercilessly, faster and faster as the boy's arse tore and blood served to lubricate the passage and allow him to move more freely. He leaned back, lifting the boy onto his lap so that he could grab the boy's limp cock and fist it to hardness. He switched between the boy's shaft and balls, tugging on both until he felt the boys arse clench and his body stiffen. He cupped his hand around the head of the boy's cock, catching the cum as it came and proceeding to rub it over the open, now inflamed wounds.

He returned them to his prior positions and continued rutting against the boy until he found his own completion, shooting his load as deep into the boy's arse as he could. He pulled out and waited a minute until his full bladder made itself known, and turned the boy over once more. He proceeded to release himself all over the boy, taking care to get the most in the boys open mouth and over his cuts. He grabbed the boys sheet from of the bed and used it to wipe himself clean, before laying it over the boy and leaving the room.

"Happy Birthday, freak," was the last thing Harry heard before he again fell to the darkness.

oOoOoOo

Harry didn't know how long he had been unconscious, but when he finally awoke, he dressed himself in his backup clothes and grabbed his wand from under the bed, willing himself to the one place he knew he'd either be welcomed or killed. Either was fine with him.

oOoOoOo

After Harry had joined him, things had gone easily from there. Harry turned out to have a very vicious dark streak to him, and took great pleasure in practicing the new Dark curses Voldemort had taught him on the light side.

Voldemort had fallen in love as he watched Harry Imperio the Weasley matron into tearing her children apart with her bare hands. He especially loved how Harry had waited until she was starting to eat the intestines of her youngest before removing the curse and letting her kill her self.

He had fallen further as the boy had held Dumbledore himself under the Cruciatus while simultaneously breaking his ribs one by one and peeling away his skin. It had been one of his fondest memories watching Harry flick his wand, and watching Dumbledore slowly inflate as his veins burst and his body continued to make blood until he drowned in it.

He even pledged to buy the boy more and more expensive trinkets as he sat back and watched him ruthlessly cut down lines of Aurors, Order members, and students alike.

He had said nothing as Harry spared the life of a few, the Lovegood and Longbottom children. He had simply informed Harry of the extra rooms in the Family wing of the manor, and turned back to cutting off Scrimgeour's legs.

He was surprisingly satisfied with life after battle. Harry had, somehow, fallen for him as well, and they spent the first few years of their reign in happy, marital bliss.

oOoOoOo

_It's 5 o'clock in the morning  
>And I'm just getting in, I knock on the door<br>A voice sweet and low says, who is it?  
>He opens up the door and lets me in<br>Never do he once say, sir, where have you been?  
>No, he says, are you hungry?<br>Are you hungry, honey? Did you eat yet?  
>Let me hang up your coat, your coat, your coat<br>And the man tells me, pass me your hat too  
>All the time he smiles, never once raises his voice<br>It's 5 o'clock in the morning_

By the fourth year, Voldemort's eyes begun to wander. His faithfuls' children had matured very well, and the Zabini boy in particular seemed to be very interested in his Master.

It was a while though, before he indulged.

Ironically, It was Harry's 20th birthday that Voldemort had stumbled into their chambers later than usual, slightly disheveled and simply reeking of expensive cologne. He didn't think Harry noticed, though, since he smiled at him anyways, and asked after his day as usual. Harry hadn't said a thing about Voldemort missing his birthday, in fact, it was Lucius who reminded him of the fact three days later, asking after what he had gifted him. Voldemort had run to Harry, laden with apologies and presents, astounded as the man simply smiled wistfully, saying he didn't mind being forgotten every once in a while. 'I know you love me, and that's all that truly matters' he had said, and Voldemort had been happy with that.

_It's a thin line between love and hate...  
>The sweetest man in the world<br>Can be the meanest man in the world  
>If you make him that way, you keep on hurting him<br>He keeps being quiet  
>He might be holding something inside<br>That really really hurt you one day_

It became almost a ritual for Voldemort, a game, seeing how many lies he could tell he tell Harry, how easily he could explain away his absences. He stopped making love to Harry, just to see what he would say.

He got no reaction, no yelling, no screaming. Not even a question. Just a silent acknowledgment of the fact, and a slight smile every time he passed by.

He moved into separate quarters, saying he hated waking Harry when he came in late. Harry had just nodded and looked away, that constant smile still on his face, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he stared out of the enchanted window by the side of his bed. Voldemort never knew what Harry saw, it was different for everyone who looked. He soon found that he didn't care.

He walked away from Harry at the beginning of each day, barely acknowledging the soft 'I love you' that sounded each morning. A brief nod, and he was gone.

He made raucous love in his own quarters, knowing the screams of his flavor of the day reverberated throughout the manor. He knew Harry could hear, as his quarters were the closest, but still received the same slight smile. He even checked for silencing charms, and finding none, was mildly perplexed that the man seemed not to notice, still treated him the same.

Had he looked closer, he would have seen the flash behind the man's otherwise dull eyes at his presence. Had he been paying attention, he would have notice the man had long since stopped saying "I love you" every morning, and was even sometimes missing from his spot at the breakfast table.

Looking back, he should have seen it coming.

oOoOoOo

_Here I am laying in the hospital  
>Bandaged from feet to head<br>Ya see I'm in the state of shock  
>Just that much from being dead<br>I didn't think my man could do something like this to me  
>I didn't think he had the nerve, so here I am<br>I guess action speaks louder than words  
>It's a thin line between love and hate…<em>

It was his own fault, he decided as he lay bleeding on the floor of his quarters. He had done this to himself, recklessly destroyed his relationship with Harry, just for a bit of fun.

He couldn't bring himself to hate the man as he felt each one of his extraneous limbs and bones break, one by one.

As the boy vanished his stomach and increased the volume of the acid inside, he couldn't help but think he had asked for this. He deserved the pain of his body literally digesting itself. He had caused Harry so much more.

The varied Cruciatus curses hardly bothered him, but he was more than a little hurt when Harry unleashed a spell of his own design that he had not heard about being completed. It was designed brutally rape the victims mind, find their deepest, darkest memories and fears and replay them all at once in the victim's head. He had been the inspiration of the curse, and as his childhood tormentors appeared before him, he admired how flawlessly Harry had created the spell, on his own no less.

He looked up at his husband, who stood quietly above him, splattered in blood and bits of flesh, seemingly unaffected. He admired the way he had matured, the way the smooth skin hadn't wrinkled any, the way the lean body had stayed fit. How had he not noticed this before? Harry was beautiful, so much better than all those he had chosen above him. How could he have set him aside?

He tried to tell Harry that he had realized that he did love him again, that he always loved him, that he was sorry and didn't mean it, but blood was pooling rapidly in his mouth and all that he managed was a gurgle.

He couldn't help but feel ashamed as the tears started to stream down his face, mingling with the blood on the floor. He could only hope Harry didn't think of him as a coward for them. He wasn't afraid, just incredibly chagrined.

He could only watch as Harry raised his wand again, with an air of finality about him.

"I suppose it always was my destiny to kill you Tom. Albus was wrong, though. My love did nothing to save you," Harry whispered in a raspy voice.

The last thought Voldemort had before the green flash engulfed him was that this was the first time he had heard Harry speak in over a year.

_It's a thin line, between love and hate  
>It's a thin line...<em>


End file.
